An Offer of Employment
by mosylu
Summary: The Danzigers almost didn't make it to G889. Oneshot, preseries.


(A/N) Okay, I used to disagree mightily with authors that had D&D meeting face-to-face before the crash, because of the way he had to remind her of his name during their first argument. But this idea popped up, and I had to run with it. I've decided that she was playing have-we-met in order to get rid of him. Yeah, that worked like a charm. By the way, I know the timeline doesn't add up. But there were delays, remember?

An Offer of Employment

Frou-frou music drifted from hidden speakers, drilling into John Danziger's skull. Sounded like Bach or somebody tinkly like that. Give him Orbital Insanity's new file any day.

Everything was painted in boring colors--beige walls, off-white trim, windows that showed calm, peaceful country scenes. He looked at them with a mixture of appreciation and envy. It took some big bucks to install holo-frames in an assistant's office. He'd done his best in True's room, not wanting her to grow up with bare steel walls, but magazine clippings, magnetic letters, and cheap grocery-store art weren't even in the same orbit with the spring-green grass and trees that the holo-frames showed.

Panic boiled up in his stomach before he battled it back. For a week, he'd thought there was a way out of the vicious cycle he'd always lived in. A job--just one job--but it would pay the entire debt that had been riding three generations of Danziger backs. Head of Ops for a quick jaunt halfway across the galaxy and back again, and everything would be different.

Then the news--no job for you, Danziger. You're not even one of the underlings. Too bad, so sad. Back to the quad with you, my lad.

Damned if he was going to go down without a fight.

He'd never been on this level in his life. Not even for work. It felt like a castle, like in the picture book he'd read to his daughter the night before--"seriously, angel, this is the _last_ one, I mean it." Like he was a peasant sitting just outside the drawbridge, or poised at the bank of the piranha-filled moat. Did they even have piranhas in castle moats? Probably would have if they coulda gotten hold of them.

He stole a look at the hyper-efficient assistant who'd locked the door to the inner sanctum before he could even slap the open switch. She caught him looking and raised an eyebrow. He looked away. Yep. Castle, complete with dragon.

He shifted in the chair the dragon had pointed him at. It had looked frail before he sat in it, and it still felt frail under his big frame. He wondered what would happen if he broke it.

Off with his head.

Silently defiant, he slouched, ignoring the ominous creak. He stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle, and fished a cheap magazine-reader from his pocket. If he was going to be stuck here until Her Highness got done with her multi-orbital conference call or her manicure or whatever the hell was more important than a drone without an appointment, he might as well catch up.

He downloaded an industry magazine from the library and started reading. The feature article happened to be on the job he'd just finished, with a big color spread of the fat, sleek bosses smiling proudly at their shiny new toy. "No cost spared," the article proclaimed fatuously, and he snorted. He knew better.

_We want it to run with no more than fifty gigawatts per day, _they'd ordered, blissfully unaware that they were using up fifty just powering their exercise machines. _We're cutting costs._ Right, because it would be such a tragedy if they had to trim the CEO's salary. They might have to share an orbital vacation home with another family. The horror.

The clack-clack-clack of impatient heels cut into his concentration. "I should have known better than to agree to a meeting with Derstein at eleven. God, can that man talk. I finally had to pretend a VR malfunction just to escape. Paulina, I'm going to lunch."

He lurched out of his chair, almost dropping the reader, and stepped into the path of the slender woman who was just turning toward the outer door. She screeched to a halt just before her sharp little nose would have slammed into his chest.

Behind her, the dragon said unneccesarily, "This--uh--gentleman's been waiting for you for the past hour."

She stared up at him. No alarm, just polite surprise, elevating her fine winglike brows.

He'd seen Miz Adair before, on the news and the gossip clips, all glammed up for a night on the town. Somehow, he'd expected a taller woman, or one with more meat on her bones. She wasn't little by any means--probably five-seven. She just looked bigger in the holos.

In person, there was a softness about her face that was as unexpected as her stature. Something about the way her reddish hair fell over her forehead and messily around her shoulders. She had a pretty mouth, too, with oddly sexy lines around it.

"I'm sorry," that pretty mouth said. "Did you have an appointment with me? I'm afraid you'll have to reschedule. Paulina--"

"I didn't have an appointment."

She switched gears smoothly. "Than you can schedule one with Paulina right now. I hate to be rude, but I'm late for an important lunch meeting, and I--"

"Fifteen minutes. That's all I'm asking."

"I'm already late," she said, trying to step around him.

"Then it won't make any difference if you're five minutes later," he said, stepping with her in a parody of dance and then moving forward so he Loomed. The Loom was automatic. It came with being six-four and broad across the shoulders, and it scared most people into backing off a little.

Adair didn't budge. "It will to this person."

"The president of wherever-the-hell can probably stand to wait a little bit longer. My name is Danziger. You recognize it?"

"Ms. Adair, should I call security?" the dragon asked.

But Adair's eyes narrowed. "No, Paulina, that's all right. John Danziger?"

How about that. Her Highness realized that peons had first names. "Yeah. I was short-listed for a Head of Ops position on one of your colony ships."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Danziger. We've already made offers to other individuals."

"I know. That's why I'm here. Why?"

"Why?" she echoed, as if it had never crossed her mind to explain to people why they weren't good enough.

"Braxton's probably as good as I am, but Fanshaw isn't. Don't get me wrong, he's a good Ops man, but I'm better. Why him and not me?"

She shifted her leather briefcase--real leather, he'd bet, from a no-foolin' cow--from one hand to the other. "There were other considerations."

"I thought you wanted the best. When it comes to Ops, I'm the best."

She looked at her watch, making it clear that his five minutes were ticking away. "Mr. Danziger, when I make an offer of employment, I do so in the expectation that it will be accepted."

"And what makes you think it wouldn't have been?"

"You have a daughter."

A cold chill darted down his spine. "How do you know that?"

"I did my research. You're unmarried, an only child, and your parents are both dead. You have sole custody of a six-year-old. I was supposed to believe you'd have left her here for forty-four years?"

"No," he said. "You weren't."

Her eyes narrowed. "What would you have done if I'd offered you the job?"

He'd done all this soul-searching when he'd gotten the notification about the short-listing, and he answered without hesitation. "I'd've requested permission to take True with me."

Her brows shot up. "And if I'd refused?"

He leaned forward so they were practically nose-to-nose. "I'd've smuggled her aboard."

She returned his gaze for several seconds, her mouth pursed thoughtfully. "I don't think you'll need to go quite that far." She performed a sudden and tidy about-face, so the ends of her hair flicked across his face before he had time to straighten up. "Paulina, if Mr. Fanshaw calls, tell him someone else has already accepted the position on the advance ship. There should be another job available for him somewhere in the project. Find it. Meanwhile, before you go to lunch, Mr. Danziger here needs to sign his contract and fill out two sets of cold-sleep forms, one for himself and one for his daughter."

He felt dizzy. What the hell had just happened? "Contract?" he said dumbly.

She turned again, giving him a bright and shiny smile. "Welcome aboard the _Roanoke_."

He couldn't breathe. Somehow, though, his natural perversity came to the fore. "You're just assuming I'll sign? What if I've already got some killer job lined up two years from now?"

The dragon stopped tapping at her computer and looked at him, wide-eyed.

Adair's smile turned knowing. "You work on an hourly basis, Mr. Danziger, yet you're here instead of on-site. Beyond that, you were willing to break no fewer than twenty cold-sleep rules and regulations in order to take this position and bring your daughter along. Even if you already signed a contract for some 'killer job,' you'll break it."

His brow quirked. Arrogant, wasn't she? "Yeah?"

She tossed her hair behind her shoulders. "Yeah. And now, I really must go."

"Right," he said. "Your lunch appointment. Go and schmooze. Make more money. I'll sign your contract." He stood still though, and made her walk around him.

"Ms. Adair?" the dragon called out.

Already halfway out the door, Adair glanced over her shoulder.

"Tell Uly I hope he's feeling better today."

A smile flashed out, lighting up the room for a moment. "I'll do that. Thanks. See you this afternoon." The door hissed closed behind her.

* * *

That night, True sprawled on her stomach in front of the holo set while he tried to put together a dinner that wouldn't poison them both. The muted clicking of the remote and the disconnected chitter-chatter of the various shows she surfed past didn't register until she said, "Hey, dad, it's your boss!"

"What?" He couldn't imagine what that old fart Yakamoto was doing on the holo.

"Your new one," True clarified, and he turned to see Her Highness being interviewed by one of the interchangeable news hosts. True turned up the volume.

"--and your son is how old?"

"Uly's four. He was diagnosed when he was two."

John frowned. _Uly._ Her lunch appointment.

Hmm.

The interviewer was saying, "Many medical professionals don't believe that the Syndrome exists."

"Then they haven't seen a Syndrome child," Adair said, all royal arrogance. She was glossy and made-up for the show, her hair sleeked back so she looked like a porcelain figurine. In the lights, those lines around her mouth didn't even show. "I'm going to make sure--"

"Shut that off, angel." He brought the plates to the table. "Come and eat."

True ignored that, scrutinizing Adair. "She's pretty," she decided. "Did you see her when you went there today?"

"Yeah. Talked to her too."

"What was she like?" his daughter wanted to know.

He crossed the room and shut the set off himself. "A pain in the--butt." True's teacher had sent him another snotty e-mail about his daughter's language.

"You were gonna say _ass_, weren't you?"

He pointed silently at the table, and she heaved herself to her feet. "Protein and noodles again," she moaned, scooting into her chair. "Why can't we have pizza?"

He poured a glass of soy milk and set it in front of her."You know the rules. Takeout once a week, no more."

"But we haven't had it _this_ week." She looked at him with big, sad eyes, the Oppressed Daughter of a Mean Daddy. "Aren't we gonna celebrate?"

He caved, letting her in on the plans he'd wanted to keep for a surprise. "Tomorrow, baby. It's not a school night, so we can do it right."

Her face lit up. "The movies?"

"Pizzaand the movies," he promised recklessly--an expensive combination usually reserved for birthdays and early-completion bonuses.

She squealed with joy and applied herself to the despised noodles. With her mouth full, she said, "Everything's gonna be different when we get back, isn't it?"

He handed her a napkin. "You bet."

Before digging into his own meal, he looked around the boxy, cramped unit. Two years, he thought. Two years, and this was all going to be different. Their entire lives were going to be different. No more coaxing the machinery along, cadging six months out of the fridge and bullying a few more weeks out of the dishwasher when they both should've been replaced long ago. No more logging into his bank account and seeing the huge chunk that had been automatically deducted for the passage debt, leaving chump change for everything else. No more having to choose between pizza and the movies. No more foldout couches for him, no more rock-bottom schools for her.

When they got back from G889, he was never, ever going to give his girl protein and noodles again.

Best part was, aside from twenty-two years out and twenty-two back, it was a cake job. Today was probably the last time he'd ever have to deal with Her Highness, Devon Adair.

FINIS


End file.
